Some of us live parallel lives.
Our roots are spread so strongly in one place, our heads so familiar with the sky above our slice of earth that wherever we go we find ourselves strangely disconnected. Anywhere else is unfamiliar territory, anywhere else is a new colour of sky.
I live a life like this. In days I walk on grey streets, under an unsmiling sky. In dreams I am bathing in sunshine, often harsh, sometimes soft, but always there. I live here, in between the black and grey of winter but summer's colours live inside me. In clothes and bedspreads, in picture frames and scarves.
Many days I wonder why the few of us who live these parallel lives cannot shake off the sun and the chaos of what we think of as home. Why we can't find peace within the straight lines and the neatly trimmed gardens. Why we must fight the structure, always looking for our place among the fine gridlines of the societal viewfinder.
Why we live so seamlessly in parallel worlds that greet our every morning and haunt our dreams.
I don't know why it is, but I live a life like this.
I go home to my piece of sky. I plant my feet firmer into the rough soil, and my roots dig a little deeper. I look up and memorize the face of each cloud and the tune of every passing breeze.
And when I return to my unsmiling sky, while I am living on the brink of two lives, I look down and I remember where my feet really are, and how deep my roots really go.